One Blonde in Particular
by Squibidyflop
Summary: Harry has a thing for blondes, but for one of them it's more than just a 'thing'.


Over the course of his six-and-a-battle years at Hogwarts, Harry Potter had more than his share of admirers. From Alicia Spinnett to Tracey Davis, Potter's Private Pining Party (as Harry's haughty hubris humorously hoped it was called) stretched across all years and houses, unknowingly uniting countless witches in a singular desire to shag the Gryffindor stag.

However, not much thought is ever given to those Harry himself desired. Sure, between Ginny and Hermione he had all the female companionship he could reasonably hope for, sexual or otherwise, but that didn't mean his mind wasn't allowed to wander, and late one night, near the end of his sixth year, wander it did.

For example, Fleur Delacour. The former Beauxbatons beauty left much to be desired in terms of English skills, but her delicious accent made every word fall into Harry's ears like honey. Many believe Harry to be immune to a Veela's allure simply because he's _just that special_, but the truth was that Harry was as easily swayed by her smile as Ron, though he obviously did a better job of hiding it.

The Second Task only kicked his thoughts into overdrive. Even disregarding seeing Fleur in that _completely practical and not at all intended to be sexy_ one-piece swimsuit, she even indulged his fantasies by kissing him! Twice! It was on the cheek, sure, and she kissed Ron as well, but Harry was willing to excuse that just so the idiot wouldn't have something else to be jealous about. Needless to say, he spent many a night imagining Fleur thanking him in _other_ ways.

Speaking of indulging, before he even knew who Fleur was his dreams were chiefly occupied by a certain blonde witch he'd run into at the Quidditch World Cup. Harry at first felt a spark of guilt imagining this woman in such compromising positions, but it became easier - and more entertaining - when he thought of her as a guilty pleasure. And no one, in Harry's mind, could better encapsulate the term than Narcissa Malfoy.

At first it was simply his own private dig at Draco, but over time he began to wonder. She was mature to be sure, but that only meant she had experience, right? He couldn't believe she was ever satisfied with Lucius, from the way he treated Dobby Harry was sure he'd been pent up for some time, and his casual contempt for Harry during the World Cup only reinforced that idea. Yes, if only he had some sort of leverage over Draco. It would be so easy to turn it to his advantage, and he was sure Narcissa would do _anything_ to keep her family safe.

Family was how he regarded Luna Lovegood. She wasn't the prettiest girl, nor the smartest, but she was intriguing in a way quite unlike anyone Harry had ever met. Her constant talk of Nargles and Crumple-Horned Snorkacks put many off trying to get close to her, but Harry got the feeling that she understood him in her own way, in a way no one else did. He had never considered her particularly attractive, but the dress she wore to Professor Slughorn's Christmas party was so _her_ that Harry didn't believe anyone else could pull it off nearly as well.

That night, Harry had wanted to do a lot more than pull off that dress. Of course he hadn't dared broach the possibility with Luna, but in his mind she was as nervous and vulnerable as he was as they undressed. He did not think of Luna often, but when he did it was at times when he was in need of more than a quick fuck. The connection Harry dreamt up in his mind, though not romantic, was caring and loving, and perhaps the most treasured out of all his fantasies.

The last memory Harry recalled before drifting off to sleep was of a Slytherin girl his age, one he'd never directly interacted with but always seemed to be just in the background. She has a pointed nose and face, and a seemingly permanent look of smug superiority that wouldn't look out of place on a Malfoy. He platinum blonde hair framed her face wonderfully, and perfectly matched her unblemished skin. He believed her name was Daphne Greengrass, and he'd picked up enough knowledge of pureblood families over the years to know the name 'Greengrass' was held in as high regard as 'Lestrange' or even 'Black'. In terms of the company her family kept there was much to be desired, but after being wrong about so many people Harry knew better than to presume any affiliation to Voldemort.

What enticed Harry to this girl was the air of mystique she seemed to carry with her. Harry had seen her around the castle plenty of times, usually as part of Pansy Parkinson's putrid pureblood posse, but it was only in a potions class earlier that year that he realised he had never put a name to her face. For all the time he spent idly staring in her direction, he didn't know what colour her eyes were or what her voice sounded like. Of course that was the case for many others in the school for Harry, especially the ones he didn't have regular classes with, but this girl was special because every once in a while she would catch him staring, and smile. Sometimes it was a predatory grin, sometimes it was a smirk and a raised eyebrow, sometimes it was soft eyes and the slightest curve at one side of her mouth. Each time, it managed to catch Harry off guard and send his heart fluttering, but there was one memory in particular that stood out above the rest.

* * *

He'd run into her in a corridor near the Room of Requirement after dark, he'd come around a corner too fast trying to catch Malfoy and bowled her over, sending books and papers flying.

"Sorry!" was all he said as he got up. He'd planned to keep going, surely a little rudeness was worth finally getting dirt on Malfoy? But then he locked eyes with her, and all others were gone from the world. He offered her a hand, and as she took it and stood Harry felt the softness of her touch. She nodded as thanks, and as she turned to start picking things up Harry got a whiff of vanilla. He helped her gather her things, his eyes never once leaving her. As she stacked her books on the pile in his hands, he opened his mouth to speak. She quickly put a finger to his lips and shook her head, biting her lip. Harry's breath hitched in his throat and he was sure that image, along with her vanilla perfume, would be burned into his mind for all time. She grabbed her books from his hands and set off down the hallway as if nothing had happened. He made to follow her but stopped, finally taking the hint.

"What's your name?" he called after her. Couldn't she at least grant him that? She turned back to him and smiled, more brilliantly than he'd ever seen in class. He could swear he saw tears in her eyes as he waited for an answer, but one never came. Instead she spun on her heel, and turned the corner before Harry could react. Despite his disappointment, Harry found himself smiling. Even if nothing came of it, at least now he knew his attraction was to some degree reciprocated.

After standing awestruck in the hallway for entirely too long, Harry shook himself back to the present. Malfoy was already long gone, so he decided to return to the dormitory. It hadn't exactly been a productive evening, but Harry didn't regret one second of how he spent that time.

* * *

Harry jumped when he felt Hermione's hand on his leg. He was more startled than anything else; he didn't realise he'd been that out of it.

"Are you okay?" she said in a whisper. He blinked and looked at her, and only then felt the tears in his eyes. He quickly started wiping them away on the cuff of his sleeve. He looked at her again, and the concern was clear on her face.

"M'fine," he sniffed, flashing a smile. Honestly, he was as surprised as she was to find himself tearing up.

In contrast, there was a pretty blonde girl somewhere down in the Slytherin dungeons that knew exactly why her tears were falling.


End file.
